Chapter II: Part 2

And then Jimmy Droop-drawers faded out of sight. Trainor’s face went black for a moment, and the ghost of a smile flitted across the old squaw’s face, but Trainor passed it off with a laugh.

“I hope they do agree,” he laughed, “and I don’t think that Pinto Cassidy will be so hasty next time.”

“You believe my father killed him?”

Lorna leaned across the table and looked Trainor square in the eyes.

“Well--” Trainor looked away and rubbed his chin with the ball of his right thumb. “Well, I hope not, Lorna. But if he did he was only making good his threat. Ed Meeker had no business coming over here. He knew what Cassidy had said.”

“Who killed the other man--Lloyd Hansen? He wasn’t found on the Tomahawk.”

“I don’t know who killed him. But your father ain’t accused of that killin’.”

“Why was he killed?” demanded Lorna.

“Why?” Trainor shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows. But that does not interest me. Did Ben get a letter from his father lately?”

Lorna turned away from the table and sat down near the old squaw.

“I know nothing about Ben’s mail,” she replied.

Trainor smiled.

“He’s sayin’ that he’s goin’ to marry you, Lorna.”

“I have no strings on his tongue,” indifferently.

“I thought he was lyin’,” smiled Trainor. “His father wrote me that he had sent word to Ben that his money supply was cut off. It’s about time, I reckon.”

“Ben is a fool,” continued Trainor, when Lorna ignored his statement. “His father is wealthy and can give him everything he would want. He can marry a white girl and live in a fine house; so why should he stay around here?”

“And marry a ---- Injun,” added Lorna.

Trainor looked keenly at her. He remembered saying those same words to Ben, and wondered if he had told her.

“Well, you know how city folks look at Indians, Lorna. You don’t look like an Injun. If I didn’t know different, I’d never know that you had a drop of Indian blood in yuh.”

“What have the Indians ever done to make a white man look down upon their blood?” asked Lorna hoarsely. “They only fought for what had belonged to them for many years. It was not that they wanted to win more, but to keep what they already owned.

“I know. I have read history in school. I have read many tales of the Indian--written by men who knew only the one half of the tale--the white half. The Indian fought in his own way--the only way he knew.

“The Indian was lazy, because that was his disposition, but the squaw was not lazy. And the Indian was honest and sober until the white man--that superior race--came to ruin his morals and soul. He taught the Indian to lie, steal and drink. Perhaps--” Lorna turned away scornfully--“it will take many more years to bring the Indian up to the standard which the white man started to teach him many years ago.”

Trainor laughed loudly and slapped his thigh.

“Lorna, when you turn loose, I wonder if you’ve got any white blood in yuh.”

“I am never ashamed of Indian blood,” she retorted, “but there are times when I am ashamed of my white blood.”

“All right,” grinned Trainor. “I don’t blame yuh. Let’s drop the subject. I never like to argue with a lady.”

“Bad business,” grunted the old squaw.

“That’s right, Minnie,” agreed Trainor, laughing. “Anyway, I like Lorna too well to argue with her.” He got to his feet and picked up his hat.

“I’m going to run in real often,” he stated. “Cassidy won’t get another trial before the next term of court, and that’ll be three months from now. You’ll probably be needing a little help before he can get cleared, and I want yuh to understand that the Circle Cross is willing to help yuh in any way we can.”

“Good!” grunted the old squaw.

But Lorna did not express any thanks for his offer. He looked keenly at her before he turned toward the door. She gave him a sidelong glance as he went out through the door, but it was not a look of gratitude.

She heard him gallop away, going back toward the Circle Cross, and then she sat down beside the table. The old squaw had put away her pipe and was softly crooning a Sioux cradle-song, a chanting, tuneless thing that recited the superiority of the Sioux papoose over anything else on earth. It was one of the first things Lorna remembered, but she shuddered just now. It seemed so foolish to think that the Indian could be superior.

“Perhaps,” she told herself, “it is the white blood that rises above the red and makes me dislike Indian songs.”

The squaw finished the song and started all over again. Lorna got to her feet and walked to the door, as if to get away from the song, and as she looked out into the sunlight, two riders, the two men who had lifted their hats to her in Wolf Wells, were riding up to the house.

Jimmy, the half-breed, was working around one of the corrals, but when he saw the two men he came up toward the house. Hashknife and Sleepy took off their hats and spoke to Lorna pleasantly.

“We was just ridin’ around, ma’am, and thought mebbe we could get a drink of water,” explained Hashknife, “We tried to take a drink out of the little creek below here, but it was a little too bitter with alkali.”

“We have plenty of water,” replied the girl, and turned to the half-breed.

“Jimmy, will you get some water from the well? These men want a drink.”

Jimmy squinted at the two cowboys for a moment before he turned and went around the house. Hashknife and Sleepy dismounted and came up to the steps, just as Mrs. Cassidy came over to the door.

“Hello, mother,” smiled Hashknife. “How are you today?” The old squaw smiled broadly at the title and nodded pleasantly. Hashknife turned to Lorna.

“This is the Tomahawk ranch, ain’t it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh. Yuh see, I wasn’t sure. Somebody told us that we’d likely get shot if we came here, but we don’t believe everythin’ we hear.”

Lorna smiled, but there was little happiness in it.

“I am glad you did not believe,” she replied. “We have never killed any one.”

“Sure yuh ain’t,” agreed Sleepy heartily. “I can jist look at you and see that yuh never. Gosh dang it, some folks sure do get things twisted.”

Hashknife squinted sidewise at Sleepy and a grin spread his lips. Sleepy saw the grin and shuffled his feet nervously.

“Well,” he said defensively, “can’t you, Hashknife?”

“I never disputed yuh, cowboy,” grinned Hashknife.

Jimmy came around the corner with a bucket of water and the two cowboys quenched their thirst.

“Best water I ever drank,” declared Sleepy. “Never knowed that water could taste so danged good. Betcha I’ll be ridin’ this way real often f’r my drinks. Don’tcha know.” Sleepy was almost confidential. “I wonder why men drink strong liquor, when water tastes so good.”

“Now, little Dew-drop, don’t get so enthusiastic,” advised Hashknife seriously, and then to Lorna--

“He’s the same way over everythin’, ma’am.”

“He likes water,” said the old squaw.

“Under bridges,” admitted Hashknife. “Sleepy--say, I plumb forgot to introduce us. I’m Hashknife Hartley and this here water-soaked pardner of mine is named Sleepy Stevens.”

“I am Lorna Cassidy,” said the girl, “and this is my mother, Mrs. Cassidy.”

“We’re sure pleased to meetcha,” said Sleepy, bowing gracefully, but kicking over the water-bucket at the same time.

“You’ve gotta watch him all the time,” explained Hashknife, as Sleepy hastened to right the bucket. “He’ll get his feet right into anythin’ that’s got water in it.”

Sleepy stood up, a grin on his flushed face. Lorna was laughing and a wide grin overspread the old squaw’s face. Jimmy, the half-breed stepped in and held out his hand to Hashknife.

“I’m Jimmy,” he said. “Nobody speak my name.”

Hashknife and Sleepy shook hands solemnly with him.

“You’ll excuse me, won’t yuh Jimmy?” asked Hashknife, “and we both thank yuh for the water.”

Jimmy grinned.

“Plenty water. You want more?”

“No, thank yuh, Jimmy. If there was any more water around here, I’d have to get a canoe for Sleepy. He can’t swim a lick.”

Jimmy grunted and went away with the bucket. He had no sense of humor, but he instinctively liked these two cowpunchers. Perhaps it was because they shook hands with him and treated him as an equal.

“My man in jail,” said Mrs. Cassidy, as if explaining his absence. “Can’t get out. Too ---- much law.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right, mother,” said Hashknife, “but he’ll get out.”

“Won’t you come in?” asked Lorna. “It is cool in the house.”

“Betcha we will,” agreed Sleepy quickly. “I’m about fried to a cinder.”

Jimmy followed them into the house and sat down against the wall.

“Ben Lanpher lives here, don’t he?” asked Hashknife.

“He has been staying here,” corrected Lorna. “Do you know him?”

“He was pointed out to me, and they said he was livin’ here.”

“Too much whisky,” grunted the old squaw.

Hashknife smiled and rolled a cigaret. He had been afraid to ask questions in Wolf Wells for fear that some one might find out that he and Sleepy were investigating the rustling situation.

“You folks been losin’ any cattle?” he asked.

Lorna nodded quickly.

“Yes, I think so. Dad insists that we have. He told everybody that he was losing cattle, and two days after that we found a card pinned to the front door. It had been written with a pencil and told us to keep our mouths shut or something worse than loss of cattle would come to us.”

“Don’t talk about it,” advised Jimmy warningly.

Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged glances. They knew now why there was no talk about the rustlers. It was the fear of the unknown that had shut the lips of the cattlemen. It was a condition that would make every man suspect his neighbor.

“Where do the cattle go?” asked Hashknife. “You’ve got to have a market for stolen stock. Is there any way out of here, except by railroad, where cattle could have been sent?”

Lorna shook her head.

“I can’t talk about it with you,” she said. “You are strangers to us, and for all we know you may belong to the Ghost Hills gang. Every one is afraid around here. Two men have already been killed and I think they were killed by the rustlers, but we have no proofs.”

“Ghost Hills gang, eh?” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Have they ever been seen by any one?”

“No seeum,” grunted the old squaw.

“Sort of fantom riders, eh?” grinned Sleepy. “I dunno whether we want jobs in this range or not, Hashknife. I’m kinda spooky m’self.”

“Does kinda make a feller feel creepy,” admitted Hashknife seriously, “and I don’t blame you folks for not talkin’ too much. I don’t suppose the sheriff is spendin’ much time tryin’ to round ’em up.”

“He stay home,” grunted Jimmy. “Sheriff smart man.”

Hashknife laughed softly and picked up his hat.

“Well, folks, I reckon we’ll drift along. Can we cut straight across the hills to Wolf Wells?”

“Yeah,” grunted Jimmy. “No fence, no trail. Not so long as road.”

Lorna followed them to the door and watched them mount.

“Will you come again?” she asked, just a trifle wistfully.

“Unless the ghost riders plug me first,” said Sleepy quickly.

“She meant both of us,” grinned Hashknife, as they rode away. “Sleepy, you sure do lose what little sense yuh got when yuh see a pretty girl.”

“Well, by golly, she sure is a pretty girl, Hashknife. She’s got Lanpher’s daughter beat four ways from the jack.”

Hashknife turned in his saddle and looked keenly at Sleepy, who was looking back toward the Tomahawk ranch-house. Sleepy turned and encountered Hashknife’s gaze.

“Rope’s draggin’ ag’in, Sleepy,” warned Hashknife.

“Lemme alone, will yuh?” snapped Sleepy, spurring his horse ahead and up the brushy slope.

“There’s some nice lookin’ girls in the city,” said Hashknife, quoting what Sleepy had said the night he had met Miss Lanpher.

But Sleepy only grunted. He and Hashknife had been partners for years, riding the ranges from Alberta to Mexico, and both were still heart and fancy free. Neither of them had ever been willing to marry and settle down. No range had ever been home to them for more than a few months at a time, and neither of them was young.

Both of them bore scars of conflict, and behind them were greater scars, which they had left in payment of injustice to others. They did not seek trouble, but, as Hashknife had said:

“There’s an antidote for every kind of poison, Sleepy. Some of it ain’t nothin’ more than salt-water or soapsuds, but it does the trick. Poison is poison, whether it’s somethin’ yuh get out of a bottle or somethin’ that grows in yore soul.

“When me and you first started hornin’ into dirty deals, I figured we was professional trouble-shooters, but I’ve come to the conclusion that the good Lord intended us as an antidote for range poison. And we’ve sure cured a lot of hard cases.”

“And never profited thereby,” reminded Sleepy.

“No-o-o, but yuh never heard of soapsuds and salt-water yelpin’ for pay. We’re just antidotes, thasall.”

Sleepy had a habit of falling in love at first sight, but it never went beyond that. Both of them realized that the marriage of one would mean the end of their adventures, and they were not ready to lead a peaceful life.

* * * * *

Fat Fleager was putting in a bad afternoon. It was bad enough to have Smoky Cole in town, drunk. Smoky had been drinking alone since the jury had been discharged, and he was beginning to move around, as if defying the whole world.

He had imbibed raw whisky for twenty-four hours, and was still on his feet. Not only was he on his feet, but he was fairly steady on them. His eye was bloodshot, but not at all bleary.

Fleager had observed Smoky Cole closely, waiting for him to run into some of the folks who had denounced him in the courtroom. Then came Ben Lanpher to add to the slatlike sheriff’s troubles. Ben was nearly drunk when he reached town, and he lost no time in bracing his chest against the Lily of the Valley bar and filling his interior with fighting liquor.

Fat lost no time in hot-footing it back to the office and waking Lonesome Hobbs out of his mid-day siesta.

“Nouk,” grunted Lonesome. “To ---- with ’em both. Let ’em git at each other, Fat.”

“But me and you have sworn to uphold the law,” wailed the sheriff. “We’ve gotta do it, Lonesome.”

“I’ll hold her up,” agreed Lonesome, getting off the bunk, adjusting his hat and selecting a sawed-off shotgun from the gun-rack.

“Where’s all them buckshot shells, Fat?”

“Now whatcha goin’ to do?”

“Shoot ---- out of both of ’em. It’s gettin’ so a fuf-feller can’t even sleep around here. Where’s the shells?”

“Aw-w-w, go lay down!” wailed the sheriff. “You ain’t no help to me, Lonesome. You’re either as lazy as the ----, or as bloodthirsty as a cannibal. I hired yuh as a deputy and all I got was a drawback.”

“Well, whatcha want me to do?” grunted Lonesome. “I only know how to do two things real well--sleep and shoot. You woke me up, darn yuh, and now yuh won’t let me know where them shells are. You ain’t noways consistent.”

“Yuh might use a little brains!” snapped the sheriff.

“If I had brains--” The cot creaked raspingly, as Lonesome stretched himself out again-- “If I had brains I’d never live in Wolf Wells, I’ll tell yuh that, Fat Fleager. Anyway, it ain’t no job for a fat man, this ain’t. All you’ve got to do is stand sideways and nobody can hit yuh. With me----”

Lonesome lifted his head and looked toward the door, but the sheriff had gone, and Lonesome did not finish his sentence.

Then he groaned dismally, got off the cot and buckled on his belt. He was in no mood to be trifled with now. It was his usual siesta time, and he meant to make it worth losing sleep over.

With Ben Lanpher in the Lily of the Valley, and Smoky Cole in the Antelope saloon, the sheriff planted himself between the two, which were half-a-block apart, and made a resolution that they--Ben and Smoky--must be kept apart.

The fact that one of them did not know the other was in town helped the sheriff considerably. Lonesome looked witheringly upon the watchful sheriff and went into the Lily of the Valley, where he found Ben Lanpher, standing with his shoulder-blades sort of hooked over the top of the bar, while he considered things of importance.

Lonesome Hobbs was no diplomat. He knew that Ben was just drunk enough to pick trouble. His bleary eye and the belligerent angle of his sombrero proclaimed to Lonesome that Bennie was contemplating starting something.

Lonesome walked up to the bar beside Ben, as if to buy a drink, turned swiftly and kicked Bennie’s feet from under him. And while Bennie was going down in a sitting position, Lonesome uppercut him with a right fist, which landed Bennie into dreamland.

Then, while everything in the saloon suspended operations to watch him, Lonesome removed Bennie’s gun, flipped out the cartridges and replaced the gun.

“And that’s some sudden!” exclaimed the bartender.

“Dud-danged right,” admitted Lonesome, and to the crowd--

“When he wakes up, you tell him to high-tail it out of town, ’cause I’m comin’ back to make both sides of his face match up.”

Then Lonesome went out of there, walking stiff-legged, and headed for the Antelope. The sheriff was still planted in the same spot, but Lonesome walked past him, as if the sheriff was a stranger. He spoke to Lonesome, but got no reply.

Lonesome went into the Antelope and found Smoky in a poker-game. Or rather, Smoky was half-in and half-out of the game. He was standing up, leaning across the table and talking in uncertain and very profane terms over what he declared to be a deliberate attempt to swindle him out of a pot.

Smoky was just drunk enough to be vile in his language, and dangerous withal. He was standing up in front of his chair when Lonesome’s right hand hooked into his gaudy muffler, and a moment later he went over backward, taking the chair with him, and landed on the back of his head with a thud.

It knocked all the fight out of Smoky, and his mind was a blank during the time that Lonesome removed his gun and took out the cartridges. Smoky had no friends in the place to assist him, and those present seemed to get a lot of fun out of the incident.

“Tell him to rattle his hocks out of town,” said Lonesome. “He’s been makin’ himself ob-obnoxious around here, and I’ll be watchin’ the front door for his goin’. Me and the sheriff is plumb tired of bein’ annoyed.”

Lonesome went out of the door and crossed the street toward the office, without looking at the sheriff, who was still holding forth between the two saloons. Lonesome went into the office and planted himself near the front window, after placing the sawed-off shotgun handy.

It was several minutes later that Ben Lanpher came to the door of the Lily of the Valley. His right hand caressed the side of his head and he seemed undecided as to what he intended doing. He took stock of the fact that the sheriff was between him and the Antelope saloon, but started walking toward him.

About this time Smoky Cole staggered out of the Antelope, his hat in his hand. He was also a trifle erratic in his movements, and perhaps a bit near-sighted after the bump on his head, because he too started toward the sheriff.

There was nothing for the sheriff to do but to move away from between them, which he did and did quickly.

“Don’tcha start nothin’!” he yelled. “Don’tcha ----”

But his warning was wasted. The two belligerents had recognized each other. For a moment they hesitated, then two hands reached for two guns. Smoky was the faster of the two. His gun was out before Ben had started his draw, but the hammer fell upon an empty cylinder.

Swiftly his thumb hooked the hammer, and again the dull click of a dead cylinder. Ben’s gun was leveled now, but his efforts were as unavailing as were Smoky’s. But Smoky did not hear the click of Ben’s gun, because Smoky was going away as fast as his legs would carry him.

Ben did not pay any attention to Smoky’s going, because a quick glance told him that his gun was empty, and he turned to run the other way. Lonesome whooped with glee and fell backward on the cot, while the sheriff, after a glance in either direction, hurried across to the office.

Lonesome sat up and looked at the sheriff, his eyes filled with tears. The sheriff was a trifle pale and his lips worked soundlessly.

“What’s the matter with you?” choked Lonesome.

“Thank the Lord!” exclaimed the sheriff. “I--I’m glad to hear your voice, Lonesome. I thought I had lost my hearin’. Them two guns ----”

“Were empty,” finished Lonesome. “Ha, ha, ha, ha! They never thought to look at ’em, and nobody told that I took out the shells.”

“You took ’em out?”

“Yeah, I took ’em out,” laughed Lonesome, and then told the sheriff what he had done to both men.

The sheriff went to the door and looked into the street. Ben Lanpher was mounting his horse, and a moment later rode away toward home. He was unsteady in his saddle and lost his hat, but did not stop to recover it.

It was probably ten minutes later that Smoky Cole rode out of the livery-stable and headed toward home. He was savagely drunk and took out his spite on his horse, which almost threw him off in front of the sheriff’s office.

“Well, they’re gone and I hope they never come back,” declared the sheriff fervently.

“You and me both,” agreed Lonesome wearily. “It’s gittin’ so a fuf-feller can’t even sleep around here. Next time I’ll take a hammer and nails with me and nail their pants to the floor. I’ll betcha they’ll stay put next time I have to git out of mum-my sleep to correct ’em.”

“You think you’re a little bit of ----, don’tcha?” queried the sheriff sarcastically.

“Not such a little bit either,” retorted Lonesome. “I’ve got the stren’th to hold up the law, y’betcha.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy were riding in from the other end of town, and the sheriff watched them ride up to the front of the office and dismount. He was not exactly sure whether he liked these two punchers or not. Still their smiles were friendly enough, but he was not sure that they were not laughing at him.

“Howdy,” greeted Hashknife. “How’s tricks?”

“Tricks are fine,” yelled Lonesome. “I jist pup-played a dinger. Lemme tell yuh about it.”

And with great gusto and much stuttering, Lonesome told them how he had treated the two drunken punchers.

“And Fat Fleager thought he’d lost his hearin’, ’cause he couldn’t hear ’em shootin’,” concluded Lonesome. “Mamma mine, I never done nothin’ half as good before.”

“Didja think they’d do that, when yuh took the shells out of their guns?” asked Hashknife.

“I wasn’t sure of nothin’,” admitted Lonesome, “but it sure worked out swell.”

“Now they’ll pack a grudge agin’ you,” declared the sheriff.

“And I’ll pack a riot-gun,” said Lonesome laughing.

“Kind of a tough place yuh got here,” said Hashknife, sitting down on the sidewalk and producing his papers and tobacco. “Cattle fade out and folks get shot. You kinda got yore hands full, ain’t yuh, sheriff?”

The sheriff nodded slowly and shoved his hands deeply into his pockets.

“Yeah, I reckon things are kinda unsettled, Hartley.”

“You fellers find a job yet?” Thus Lonesome, as if to change the subject.

“Not yet,” grinned Hashknife. “Jobs is scarce.”

“If I wanted a job punchin’ cows, I’d sure pass up the Ghost Hills range,” observed the sheriff. “There’s lots of better ranges than this, where there’s always a need for top-hands.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right,” agreed Hashknife. “It ain’t noways the best. The Circle Cross is the best outfit around here, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, I reckon it is. They run more cattle than any other outfit around here--or did until--say, did yuh go over to the Flying M? Old man Shappee might have a job for one of yuh. It’s about four miles east of here. And there’s the 66 outfit about seven miles kinda south of here.”

“We was just ridin’ around today,” explained Hashknife. “We ran across the Tomahawk ranch-house, but they ain’t hirin’ nobody.”

“That’s a cinch,” said Lonesome, grinning widely. “They never did hire anybody. Old Cassidy and Jimmy Droop-drawers done all the work. Mebbe Ben Lanpher is doin’ somethin’ since old Cassidy git into jail, but I doubt it. He’s so soaked with hooch that he’s no good to anybody.”

“Who is this here Ben Lanpher?” asked Hashknife.

“Millionaire kid,” grunted the sheriff. “His father owns half of the Circle Cross. Lives in Frisco, I think. Sent the kid out here to learn the cattle business and he took a post-graduate course in whisky and six-guns. He was at the Circle Cross for quite a while, but he got stuck on Cassidy’s daughter, pulled off a quarrel with Jim Trainor and hooked up with the Tomahawk. He says he’s goin’ to marry that breed girl, but I doubt it.”

“So do I,” agreed Sleepy, and added quickly. “He’d never stay sober long enough for that.”

Hashknife chuckled to himself and tried to catch Sleepy’s eye, but Sleepy was busy examining his fingernails and would not look up.

“It’s a wonder that his father wouldn’t make him come home,” said Hashknife. “Somebody’ll kill him if he don’t pull the kink out of his neck.”

“Well, sir, he’s got a nice father, too,” observed the sheriff. “I kinda like Lanpher. Not a ---- bit like the kid. He was here about a year or so ago--him and his wife and daughter.”

“And that daughter is a dinger,” wheezed Lonesome. “Prettiest girl I ever seen. She sure was a promisin’ lookin’ filly, but Jim Trainor kinda close-herded her all the time. By golly, there was a lot of punchers that’d given their right eye to even dance with her. Her ma high-toned everybody, but papa was sort of a harmless hoptoad.”

Lonesome laughed and shook his head sadly.

“Mamma looked right over my huh-head, when I tried to shake hands with her. I told her to set her sights lower if she wanted to connect with me and she got sore. Anyway, I got papa drunk and he confided that he had high ideas for daughter. I often wonder if he hit what he was aimin’ at.”

“And they ain’t been here since, eh?” This from Sleepy.

“Nope. Their little son stayed, thasall. And I’ll tell a man that this country didn’t draw much when they got him.”

“Lots of cattle shipped out of here?” asked Hashknife.

“Ain’t been for a while.” The sheriff shook his head. “Oh, there’s a few bein’ shipped now and then, but no big shipments. The 66 outfit shipped some horses the other day, didn’t they, Lonesome?”

“Gosh, I dunno,” Lonesome yawned widely. “I never keep track of them kinda things. It keeps me busy knockin’ down drunken bad-men. Ho-o-o--hum-m-m!”

“Why don’tcha try sleepin’ for it?” asked Hashknife.

“Try it?” snorted the sheriff. “My ---- he don’t do nothin’ else but sleep.”

“Don’t I?”

Lonesome slapped himself on the chest.

“I went out and cleaned up on the bad-men, while the sheriff planted himself over there on the sidewalk and got cockeyed from tryin’ to watch both ways at once.”

“Yuh should ’a’ seen him, gents. He seen Smoky comin’ one way and Bennie the other. Then he yelps:

“‘Don’tcha start nothin’!’ Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Lonesome roared his mirth and the sheriff whirled and went into the office, quivering with indignation.

“Now he’s mad at me,” wailed Lonesome, “and I suppose he’ll fire me, and I won’t have no more job than a jackrabbit. That’s just my luck.”

“You think yore kinda ---- smart, don’tcha?” growled the harassed sheriff.

“Well,” Lonesome sighed gleefully, “it isn’t as bad as I thought it was. When Fat gets to blamin’ me for bein’ smart, I know everythin’ is all right.”

Lonesome began manufacturing a cigaret and the conversation stopped for a few minutes. A loaded wagon creaked down the street, stirring up a cloud of dust. Over in front of the Antelope saloon a couple of cowpunchers mounted and rode away, arguing loudly over something that neither of them knew anything about. Up the street a couple of dogs started a battle, which was a signal to every dog in town to come and look on.

Hashknife inhaled deeply on his cigaret and motioned with his arm to take in the whole town.

“Boys, this is the kind of a town to live in. They can all have their cities--give me the old cow-town.”

“Huh!”

Lonesome flipped away his match and stared at Hashknife.

“Pardner, you’ve got a ---- of an idea of a place to live. You ain’t been around much, have yuh?”

“No-o-o, not a whole lot.”

“I guess you ain’t.”

“Here comes an old-timer,” observed Sleepy, pointing up the street. “Betcha he struck the mother-lode.”

It was a bearded old prospector, astride a bony, gray horse, and trailing him was a decrepit-looking pack-horse, with pack askew and a limp in one leg.

The one-man caravan came straight to the office and the bearded man shaded his eyes from the sun, as he spelled out the sheriff’s sign over the door.

“Howdy, stranger,” said Lonesome. “Somethin’ I can do for yuh?”

“You the sheriff?” asked the bearded one anxiously.

“No, I’m his hired bad-man buster,” grinned Lonesome.

Just then the sheriff came to the door, and Lonesome jerked his thumb in that direction.

“There’s the sheriff--such as he is.”

“What do yuh want?” queried the sheriff.

“Well--” The patriarch cleared his throat raspingly and leaned forward in his saddle--“I found a dead man a little while ago.”

The sheriff stepped out nearer him.

“Keep on talkin’, stranger. Where’d yuh find him?”

“Back up the road a piece. Mebbe it’s a couple of miles. He’s layin’ on his face in the middle of the road. I didn’t move him none, I didn’t, but I looked at him enough to know that he’s dead. Been shot in the back of the head, ’cordin’ to what I observed.”

“What did he look like?” queried Lonesome.

“I told yuh he’s layin’ on his face--kinda rootin’ into the dust. Got on chaps and overalls and a shirt. Jist a little ways before I finds this here dead man, I finds this in the road.”

He drew a six-shooter from the waistband of his overalls and handed it to the sheriff. It was a Colt single-action .44 caliber.

“Say yuh found it in the road?” asked the sheriff, examining the gun closely.

“Yeah. I thinks to myself that I’ve found me a good gun, but when I finds the dead man, I decides to turn the gun over to the sheriff. It’s been shot once.”

“I see it has,” nodded the sheriff, and then to Lonesome--

“Get a hack from the livery-stable and we’ll go out after this dead man.”

Lonesome bow-legged his way across the street and down to the stable, while the sheriff went back through his office to the stable, where he and Lonesome kept their saddle-horses.

The old prospector turned and studied the saloon signs across the street, spat dryly and rode over to the Antelope to quench a thirst that was probably of long standing.

“Who do yuh reckon got killed, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy, as they waited for the sheriff.

“Probably that fool Lanpher. Here comes the sheriff.”

They swung on to their horses and joined Fleager, without waiting for Lonesome.

“He’ll come along after while,” assured the sheriff. “We’ll go ahead and investigate.”

It took them only a short time to reach the spot, where the man was lying. On both sides of the road was a heavy thicket of brush and rocks. The sheriff dismounted and turned the man over.

It was Smoky Cole. Hashknife and Sleepy swung down and the three of them made a minute examination. Cole had been shot from behind, the bullet striking him almost at the base of the brain.

“Never knowed what hit him,” declared the sheriff, standing up and dusting his knees.

“His gun is still in its holster, too,” said Hashknife as he drew the gun out and looked it over. All the chambers were loaded and the barrel was clean.

“Kinda looks like he never had a chance, sheriff.”

The sheriff nodded gloomily and began searching for tracks in the deep dust.

“I wonder where Sandy Claws found that six-gun.”

“Said it was a little beyond here,” said Sleepy. “It was prob’ly beyond that curve, and we can likely see where he picked it up.”

They left the body and walked up the road, searching for the place where the old man had dismounted to pick up the gun. About fifty yards beyond the first turn in the road they found the spot.

“Here’s where the gun was dropped,” observed the sheriff, pointing at the footprints in the road.

Hashknife was looking a little farther on, and now he crossed the road, reached into the brush and picked up a black sombrero.

“Here’s a hat,” he called, and walked back to the sheriff.

It was a fairly new Stetson, but badly soiled, and in the sweat-band was punched the initials “B. L.”

“Ben Lanpher,” declared the sheriff thoughtfully. “That’s his hat. He probably bushwhacked Smoky and lost his hat and gun in his getaway. And he was likely so drunk that he never thought to stop and get ’em.”

As they walked back to the body, Lonesome drove into view and managed to turn his team around near the body.

It did not take Lonesome long to find out all they knew and he shook his head sadly.

“I knowed it,” he declared. “Yuh can’t mix whisky and six-guns. Well,” optimistically, “the county ain’t loser none to speak about, Fat.”

“Mebbe not,” grunted the sheriff, and motioned for them to help him put the body into the hack.

Lonesome climbed back to his seat and the sheriff gave his orders where to deliver the body.

“Ain’t you goin’ back with us?” queried Lonesome.

“Nope, not now. I’ve got to go and get Ben Lanpher.”

“Goin’ to give him a medal?” grinned Lonesome.

“Goin’ to arrest him for murder.”

“Aw, for gosh sake! You don’t call this murder, do yuh?”

“Well--” The sheriff mounted and adjusted his holster--“well, yuh couldn’t very well call it self-defense, Lonesome. Smoky never drawed his gun, and he was shot from behind. No, I reckon Bennie is sure up ag’in’ it good and strong.”

The sheriff rode on toward the Tomahawk, while Lonesome sputtered at the team and drove back toward Wolf Wells, with Hashknife and Sleepy riding behind the wagon.

“Gosh, this sure will be a jolt to old man Lanpher,” observed Sleepy sadly.

“Yeah,” sighed Hashknife. “I sure feel sorry for them folks. I wonder if the sheriff knows Lanpher’s address in Frisco.”

“You know it, don’t yuh?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want anybody to know that I do.”

He called to Lonesome and asked him about the Lanpher family.

“I don’t know his address, and I don’t reckon that Fat does either,” replied Lonesome. “Jim Trainor’d know it.”

“Suppose we ride to the Circle Cross and tell Trainor? He’d probably want to know about Smoky Cole.”

“That’s a good idea,” admitted Lonesome. “You go ahead.”

Lonesome drove on, and the two cowboys turned and rode back up the highway toward the Circle Cross.

Hashknife was very thoughtful, but finally turned to Sleepy.

“Cowboy, it kinda looks like we’ve bit off a big chaw.”

“Sure does,” agreed Sleepy, “and there don’t seem to be no handy place to start chawin’, does there?”

Hashknife shook his head, his eyes squinted thoughtfully.

“No, there don’t, Sleepy. I reckon it’s a fact that a gang of rustlers are makin’ a cleanup in this range, but everybody is scared to talk about it.

“It must ’a’ been that gang who killed the two cattle detectives, but I don’t think they had anythin’ to do with this killin’ today.”

“Mebbe old man Cassidy is one of the gang,” suggested Sleepy.

“Might be. As far as that’s concerned, Ben Lanpher might be one of ’em, too. It looks to me like Smoky Cole tried to convict old Cassidy at that trial. He sure stuck for conviction. I’m just wonderin’ if Smoky Cole didn’t try to make love to Lorna Cassidy, and that was why the old man drew a dead-line against the Circle Cross outfit.

“Smoky was a mean sort of a jasper, and that would be his idea of revenge, to hang the old man. Still I don’t think that Ben belongs to the rustlers, because he wouldn’t hardly steal from his own father.”

“How about that warning that Lorna told us about, Hashknife?”

“Don’t mean anythin’, Sleepy. They’d naturally want everybody to think they was sufferin’, too. But where in ---- are they disposin’ of the stock? Workin’ in the dark thisaway is kinda hard, don’tcha know it? And we can’t ask a lot of fool questions, because we don’t know when we’re talkin’ to some of the gang.”

They passed the spot where Cole had been killed, and took the right-hand road at the forks, which wound in and out of the brushy coulées and into a wide swale on the bank of a creek where the Circle Cross buildings were located.

* * * * *

It was growing late, but there was still enough light to show that the Circle Cross was no small outfit. The ranch-house was pretentious in size, the barns, fences and corrals were in good repair, and even the front yard of the ranch-house seemed well-kept.

“Looks like the teepee of a millionaire,” observed Sleepy, as they dismounted at the ranch-house.

A fat Chinese answered their knock at the front door and nodded solemnly when they asked for Trainor.

“Yessah, he in. I call.”

“Who’s out there?” yelled Trainor’s voice.

“This is Hartley,” called Hashknife.

“Come on in and rest your feet.”

They followed the Chinaman into the living-room, and in a few moments Trainor came in. He was carrying a bottle of liquor and some glasses, and seemed a trifle unsteady in his walk.

“Glad to see yuh,” he boomed. “Welcome to the Circle Cross, gents. I’ve just been tryin’ out some new liquor and I find that it has a lot of authority.”

He started to pour out a glass.

“Say when, Hartley.”

“When!” grunted Hashknife quickly.

“Say, that ain’t half-full, cowboy. Why ----”

“Too late in the afternoon, and we ain’t been fed since breakfast.”

“You ain’t?” Trainor turned and yelled toward the kitchen.

“Hey, Quong! Throw on a couple of steaks. Cut ’em thick, yuh hear me?”

“Yessah, can do,” called the Chinaman.

“Wait a minute,” begged Hashknife. “We didn’t come out here to bum a meal and a drink, Trainor; we came to tell you that Smoky Cole was killed a little while ago, and that the sheriff has gone to arrest Ben Lanpher for murder.”

Trainor stared at Hashknife, started to put the bottle on the table, but missed, and it fell to the floor, where its contents gurgled out over a fine Navajo rug.

“Smoky Cole? How did this happen, Hartley?”

Hashknife explained how Cole’s body had been found and how the evidence all pointed to Ben Lanpher. He told Trainor of the bloodless gun-fight at Wolf Wells, and that Ben Lanpher had ridden away ahead of Smoky Cole.

“And he shot Smoky from the brush, eh?” Trainor’s jaw muscles bulged angrily. “Never gave him a chance. Wait a minute.”

Trainor stepped out onto the front porch and yelled at two cowpunchers, who were down near a corral. Hashknife and Sleepy followed him out and watched the two men come up to them. Hashknife and Sleepy had never seen these two, and Trainor introduced them as “Buck” Avery and “Poco” Saunders.

Avery was a square-faced, pig-eyed, medium-sized man, about thirty years of age, whose face was badly marked from smallpox.

Saunders was of medium height, but thin-faced and as dark as a Mexican. His eyes were sullen and the pupils seemed flecked with red. After a searching glance, which seemed to take in every inch of both Hashknife and Sleepy, Saunders kept his eyes on Trainor’s face, while Trainor repeated what Hashknife had told him.

Buck Avery swore witheringly, but Saunders said nothing when they learned that Smoky Cole was dead.

“We’ll all have a drink and then go to town,” said Trainor. “C’mon.”

But Poco Saunders did not accept the invitation. He turned and walked back toward the corral, without a word.

“He was Smoky’s bunkie,” said Trainor, which seemed sufficient explanation for refusing to drink.

“Poco don’t drink much, anyway,” added Buck, “but I feel like a drink would kinda take the edge off a shock like that. It ain’t that it’s any surprize t’me, though. Smoky always got mean when he was drinkin’, but he thought he was such a ---- of a gunman that he’d git past with anythin’.”

“He was shot from behind,” reminded Sleepy.

“Which’ll make it go hard with Ben Lanpher,” nodded Buck over his drink. “It’s a fine start for a kid like him, and I feel a lot more sorry for his folks than I do for him. Yuh goin’ to wire ’em, ain’tcha, Trainor?”

“Just as soon as I get to town, Buck. Let’s go.”

Poco Saunders had saddled his horse and was waiting for them. Hashknife studied Poco, while Trainor and Buck Avery were saddling, and decided that Poco was a very sinister-looking young man; and might well be marked with a danger signal.

Whereas Smoky Cole was a talkative gunman, prone to boast of his prowess and more or less audible threatening, Poco would probably shoot first and talk about it later, if at all.

Trainor and Avery rode out from the corral, joined them, and the five of them headed for Wolf Wells at a gallop. Hashknife showed them where Smoky’s body had been discovered, and where Ben Lanpher’s gun and hat had been picked up, but Poco showed no interest in this.

Trainor looked curiously at Poco, who went on without them.

“Hit him kinda hard, I reckon,” he observed. “Him and Smoky were bunkies for a long time. Poco’s a good puncher, but he ain’t got much sense.”

“Part Mexican?” asked Hashknife.

“He’s got some Mexican blood in him, I reckon,” replied Buck. “Used to talk it a little once in a while. That’s where he got his nickname.”

They rode into town and went straight to the sheriff’s office, where they found several men talking with the sheriff. He had brought Ben Lanpher back with him and had locked him in a cell.

“He was still drunk,” said the sheriff, “and he sure was a meek jasper. Didn’t object to bein’ locked up, except to tell me he never done it. Mebbe he was so drunk that he didn’t know when he shot Cole. I dunno.”

“Man never gets so drunk that he don’t remember bushwhackin’ and killin’ a man,” declared Hashknife.

“Dang right he don’t,” agreed Lonesome Hobbs. “That ain’t no alibi,” and added sadly, “I wish I’d let their guns alone t’ day. One or both of ’em would ’a’ got killed, but it would ’a’ been legal. I s’pose I’ve got to spend most of my time feedin’ and takin’ care of prisoners now. Thank gosh, we’ve only got two cells. If we get any more prisoners we’ll have to pasture ’em out some’ers.”

A man came across the street and joined the group. He was a sallow-faced man, with tobacco-stained teeth and ink-stained fingers.

“I was just comin’ down to send a telegram to Lanpher,” said Trainor, addressing the newcomer. “You heard what happened, didn’t yuh, Whitey?”

“Yeah, I heard about it. Looks kinda bad for the kid.”

Trainor walked away with Whitey, going to the depot, and Hashknife and Sleepy put their horses into a corral. At the depot, Trainor sent a long message to William Lanpher, giving him the details of the trouble.

“There’s a telegram here for yuh, Trainor,” said the depot agent, as he checked off the words on Trainor’s message.

“I was goin’ to send it out to yuh, if somebody was goin’ out your way. This’ll cost yuh a dollar and sixty cents.”

Trainor paid for the message and walked out. At the edge of the platform he tore open the envelope and read the message, a serious frown on his face. Then he grinned softly and went back up the street.

* * * * *

When Ben Lanpher sobered up he failed to become the least bit repentant over what had happened to him. Trainor had consulted with George Mitchell, the lawyer from San Francisco, and had hired him to defend Ben, but Ben would have none of him.

Hashknife and Sleepy talked with the sheriff about Lanpher.

“He’s loco,” declared the sheriff. “Tells a tale that no jury would believe.”

“What about?” queried Hashknife.

“Aw, he says he never bushwhacked Cole a-tall.”

“I’d like to talk with him a while,” observed Hashknife, “and see if he tells the same thing twice.”

“Might be a good idea,” agreed Lonesome Hobbs. “Me and Fat’ll listen and see what it sounds like.”

“Prob’ly won’t talk to yuh. Mitchell comes down here to have a talk with him, but he cussed Mitchell plumb out of the jail. Mitchell told him that Trainor hired him to defend him, and it made Lanpher sore as ----. I’ll see if Ben’ll talk to yuh.”

The sheriff came back in a few minutes with the information that Ben was willing to talk to anybody who wasn’t connected with the Circle Cross outfit. They went through the office and into the rear, where two cells were built in at the back of the room.

Old Pinto Cassidy scowled at them through the bars, but noticed that they were strangers and became more friendly. Ben came to the barred door and squinted at Hashknife.

“I know you,” he said hoarsely. “You’re the jasper that winked over my shoulder. By ---- that seems a long time ago. What did yuh want to see me for?”

“Ye don’t have to talk with ’em, if ye don’t want to, remimber that, Ben,” warned Cassidy. “Ye have to be careful who ye talk wid in here. Sure, it’s a ---- of a place to be in, so it is.”

“That’s all right, Cassidy,” grunted Ben. “I’ve nothin’ to conceal.”

“Then tell us about it,” urged Hashknife. “What did you do after you left town yesterday?”

Ben forced a laugh and tried to peer around the corner of his door.

“I remember that Lonesome Hobbs played a dirty trick on me. After that I got on my horse and started home. I was pretty drunk--too drunk to ride fast, and I had a bad horse.

“I loaded my gun on the way, I remember that because I dropped some shells and got off to pick ’em up. I had a hard time getting back on my bronc, but finally made it.

“Then I seen Smoky Cole coming. He was quite a ways behind me, but he was foggin’ right along as though he was tryin’ to catch me. I didn’t want him to catch me, because I was just sober enough to know that a killing out there might look like murder.

“I rode on, but had a lot of trouble with that ---- horse of mine. He almost threw me a couple of times, and I guess we wasted a lot of time along that brushy road. All to once, I thought that Smoky was shootin’ at me.”

Ben grinned wearily and shook his head.

“No, I didn’t see Smoky at all, but I sure heard him shoot. I drew my gun and waited for him to swing around the curve, but I guess I was just drunk enough to cause me to accidently pull the trigger. Anyway, I felt the gun kick out of my hand, and then that fool bronc started to buck again. That was the first time I ever shot off that horse, and I guess it was scared stiff.

“Anyway, we must have gone real fast, because I remember we were close to the Tomahawk when I got my reins back again. And that’s all, except that the sheriff woke me up later on and told me I had killed Smoky Cole.”

Hashknife nodded over his cigaret.

“That’s the whole story,” sighed Ben.

“And, by golly, it’s a good one, too,” added Cassidy. “You stick to that story, me lad. I stuck to mine--and look where I am.”

Hashknife laughed at Cassidy. Squawman he might be; a bitter old cattleman he surely was, but he still retained his sense of humor.

“If Cole had been killed several days ago, you might be a free man now, Cassidy,” said Hashknife.

“Ah, that’s true, me lad; but I’d suffer a long time in jail, if the poor misguided lad could be brought back to life. He was but goin’ accordin’ to his own lights, so he was.”

“Then he had a ---- poor light!” snapped Ben.

“A lot of us have,” sighed Cassidy. “Mine has flickered badly at times. ’Tis hard to sit here the long days and know that me old ranch has no keeper, except Lorna and Jimmy. Sure, that’s no job for a bit of a lass and a well-meanin’, but poor managin’ lad. They’ll hold me and Bennie for the nixt term of court, which will be a long, long time away.”

“Don’t worry about that,” assured Sleepy. “We’ll do what we can to help yuh out.”

“Well, now that’s nice of ye,” said Cassidy, scratching his head as if wondering why these strangers would promise to help him in any way.

“What do you think of my story?” asked Ben anxiously.

“I dunno,” Hashknife shook his head. “It sounds reasonable, Lanpher--to me. But they’ll likely hold you for the next term of court. You’ve got an even break, thasall.”

“That’s all I want.”

As they started away, Cassidy called to them:

“Come again, lads. Ye’r the first folks I ever known in Wolf Wells that showed common sense. Ye’ll probably not find us out when ye come again.”

“All right,” laughed Hashknife as they passed out and shut the door behind them.

The sheriff and Lonesome had heard every word, and nodded to the two cowpunchers.

“Same story,” said Lonesome, leading the way outside. “Ben sure has got it rehearsed well, or he’s tellin’ the truth.”

“Sounds reasonable, at that,” commented Hashknife. “He shot the gun accidental, got his hat bucked off. But who in thunder killed Smoky Cole, if Ben Lanpher didn’t?”

The sheriff scowled and shook his head.

“I dunno of anybody that would bushwhack him, Hartley.”

“It’s kinda gettin’ to be a habit around here, ain’t it? Trainor has lost two other men in the same way.”

“Yeah,” breathed the sheriff, “---- it! It makes me nervous to think about it. Feller never knows who’s next.”

The sheriff looked so lugubrious that Hashknife laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

“I reckon yo’re safe, as long as yuh don’t antagonize the bushwhackers,” said Hashknife.

“Huh! Well, I dunno.”

Poco Saunders came into the upper end of town, dismounted at the Lily of the Valley hitch-rack, and walked down to them. Poco had a queer, stiff-legged walk, and held his elbows close to his sides.

“Trainor said he wanted to see yuh,” he told Hashknife.

“What’s he got on his mind?” queried Hashknife.

“I dunno. Bronc stepped on his foot this mornin’, and he can’t walk. Mebbe he wants to hire yuh? I dunno.”

“Did he ask for both of us?” queried Sleepy.

Poco shook his head, turned on his heel and went back toward the saloon.

“He’s a queer jigger,” observed Lonesome; “dangdest feller to run out of words thataway.”

“He don’t talk much, that’s a cinch,” grinned Hashknife, getting to his feet. “I reckon we’ll get a bit to eat, Sleepy.”

They walked up to a restaurant and ordered a meal. It was not like Hashknife to accept a job alone, but the circumstances were different this time.

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do about it?” asked Sleepy.

“I been wonderin’ a lot m’self, Sleepy. Suppose you go out to the Tomahawk and help ’em out a little, cowboy. Keep yore eyes open and yore mouth shut; _sabe?_ I’ll take this Circle Cross job, if that’s what Trainor wants.